I could tell we were sharing. Judging by the squishy rug on the floor, either a school of Sea World porpoises had splashed past or the Olympic swim team had come through. My wet socks told the tale, and for a brief moment, I considered a new term — death by strangulation. You can guess which scarf.
In the midst of the mess, I cling to hope. Hope that the index will drop. Hope that the laundry will, too. Hope that the rugs will dry out. If they don’t, I know what to do with that scarf.